THAT HE COULD BELIEVE
The wealthy spoke in their own language. Dune knew well the derisive, sour curl of the lip when one of them saw something that displeased them- like a stray, mangy dog or a servant with an unkempt tail. He knew how laughter could be twisted from an expression of joy to one of scorn, and an appraising frown could be a hard-fought victory.
So when Ba’al says “I don’t work for them,” Dune’s focus narrows in on the note of disdain behind the statement. At first the bay thinks it’s directed at him, or those like him-- those who were not gifted with the opportunity to stand around pretending to be working. The man would not be the first to look down on Dune for his position, and certainly not the last. He should be used to it by now, the derision, but he isn’t. Every foul look or comment, every condescending tone of voice (interpreted correctly or not) he carries with him. He remembers.
But there is something different about this man. Something about his disdain that does not reek of class. Dune soothes his ruffled pride, and his fierce gaze softens. “Well, then. Scowl away.” Dune looks terrible. Sweating profusely, the golden paint on his body gone clumpy. His eyes shift in and out of focus, the poison blurring his attention. But his smile is still bright and gleaming, a gleam of liveliness that refused to be tarnished by time and circumstance. “Having fun?”
Dune holds up an apple, perfectly red and round. Before the party they had been polished to a deep sheen with a linen rag. Everything here was about appearance. He laughs at the thought of taking all this food for himself. “Oh, it’s not for me. Some friends of mine weren’t invited.”
“Friends” is a term used loosely. Some of these friends would stick a knife in his back for the right price, but… well, street kids only had each other. Theirs was a violent, twisted sort of family, the only one most of them would ever know. Dune owed his own childhood survival in part to older boys and girls-- it is only fitting that he pay it forward. "It all gets thrown out anyway, end of the night." He shrugs, tucks the apple into his sack. There were few things he abhorred more than waste.
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